Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1887-05-04
THE WREATH OF LILIES.
A POsthumous Legend by Nine George Sand.
TRANSLATED BY LEW vANDERPooLE.

TRANSLATED BY LEW vANDERP0OLE.
Never before publihsed in any language.]
The master said, let it be wreath of iv
or laurel, but the pupil begged that it nigh
be a wreath of lilies. The laurel, he said
in his soft, silvery tones, never dies, and tn
ivy in dying takes upon itself beautiful col
ors-colors which seem mockery at sue
a time. Of the three, only the lily is eve
pure and stainless, as the human soul shoul
be; and, also, it is only the lily which fades
droops and decays in death, like the human
body. And, SO arguing, Bernardino wol
his desire of the great sculptor, Tornellc.
BernardinO was born among the bleal
northern quarries where there is only the
absence Of art to make one think of art
There was nothing in his, babyhood to com
pensate him for the dirt and debris of the
quarries, and the incessant din and clattcl
of the drills, sledges and picks of the quar-
4 rymen, but the few mean little vines ani
flowers which grew in out-ef-the-way nook
and nichssywher the destroying havoc O
the toi1ers did not wreak desolation. The
other listle folk of the quarries were al
rough and coarse as those from whose loinl
they were sprung, and the boisterous noise
hurt Bernardine even mere than he was
hurt by the noise of the quarrymen. They
said and did things which panied and dis
tressed him, and so he avoided them anG
was always apart by himself.
Loving the vines and flowers, which, with
the bright sunlight and the ever-varying
sky, were his sole pleasure and happiness,
he began wondering if he could not shape
their ceunterparts out of the fragments OF
stone which the quarrymaster condemned
as worthless. At last he tried to cut bit
Of marble into resemblance of cluster OF
vine leaves. He had only rude chsel
which one of the IRON workers had hammer.
ed out of piece of broken drill, but he sue
eeeded so well that it was easy to guess
what his intention had been. He was ther
but little lad of eight years, and yet he
was already an unconscious worshipper at
the shrine of beauty. In few years more
he had attained fair degree of cleverness,
so much SO that he could no longer endure
the drudgery of the quarries, where there
was only noise and dirt and lewd jests and
coarse swearing; so one night he stole softly
away and walked on and on. never once
stopping, except for an occasional bit OF
rest or to beg chunk of brown bread and
a cup of water, until he was safe in the CITY
of Lilies. Once in Florence he was content,
despite his absolute poverty. He knew that
no one would ever come there who had
known him in the quarries, and there was
nothing else which he feared or dreaded.
When he fled from the mountains he had
thought that all would be we'll with him if
he could only reach Florence. Just how to
put himself in position of comfort he did
not know. That there was way he had
no doubt; if he could only find it. He had
| never yet been confronted with failure, be-
10 had fott ttar fol
beyond his easy reach. But to be Young
and hungry and alone in Florence, with no
one to whom he could turn for bread, and
with ne trade by which he could earn bread,
that was quite another matter Still, since
he had not yet learned that there was g., grave
and dreadful a thing as disappointment
in the world, he, in his ut ter ignorance and
unconsciousness of life, felt that he was
ready to proceed by whatever pathway was
opened to him, never dreaming but that
some pathway would be opened to him.
His bright, handsome face, so young, in
nocent and delicate; his great, frank brewn
eyes and long, jetty hair: his exquisite shape
and graceful carriage, and more than all,
his divine smile and musical voice won for
him admiration and attention, and so made
his way easier. No one refused him the
little he wanted in the way of food and
drink, and neither was he refused a place to
sleep; but when he talked of sustaining him
self by means of the little he knew about
art they laughed at him. Not derisively,
by good naturedly and out of pity.
That, they told him, was the easiest of all
ways of starving. To make art pay, they
said, one must have fortune to start with.
Bernardino sighed. He had thought all
along that art was enough But to need
fortune at the outset, that was very hard.
eff you were only in Rome. now, instead
of in Florence, you might, as helper to some
sculptor, support yourself. There is no 9TH
er way. But here in Florence. even that is
impossible" said an old wrinkled and griz-
zled dealer in bronzes and marbles.
"Alfre!' cried strong voice, in digust,
"WhO dares speak such vile slander against
Florence, the very mother of art! When
has she ever denied her artists a living?"
'Tornellop' whispered the loungers in
the shop, staring at the new conner, "Tor-
nellO-the sculptor"
There was blaze of mingled contempt
and anger in Tornello's eyes and curl of
scorn on his lips. He did not wait for an
answer, but placed one hand upon Bernar-
dino's shoulder and looked straight into the
bey's eyes, first wopderingly and then ten
derly.
''Don't let them discourage yeu with their
idle eroaking," he said: ''If you have any
instinct of art, you need have no fear. What
can you do?"
l can cut leaves and flowers and vines out
of stone, and can make them as much like
life as those in the churches.
Tornelo smiled, but restrained himself
when he saw tendency to laughter in those
about him. The boys frankness pleased
him. 1t took him back to the sweet old
days when he, too, had faith in himself.
"COme with me-" he said, "and to-mor-
row you shall do some vines and leaves and
| flowers for me-"
| So they went away together.
"Make me a wreath out of this" said
Tornelle, touching block Of Hawless mar
BILE. "Make me wreath of either ivy or
laurel"
| But the boy, loving the lilies best, plead
ed that his first work fol Tornello might be
fashioned after them. His entreaties pre-
vailed and he had his way. Down in the
meadows along The Arno he wandered,
gathering great quantities of the lovely flow
ers which he held so dear. Carrying them
home, he made the most perfect one into a
wreath; and then carefully studying them,
began the delightful task of reproducing
them in stone. Tornello, deeming such a
course best, left the boy to himself until his
| work was done.
Patiently, persistently, happily, Bernar-
dino wrought, and one evening he asked
Tornello to come and see what he had done.
| Bernardino was still under 16, and it was
less than eight years since he had FIRST
| touched chisel to stone. In all that time
he had had no teacher, no hint, no word of
instruction. Neither had he seen any work
of art in all his life until he came to Flor
encs. In his childhood, when he had ask.
ed why the stone was duarried, they told
him that some of it was made into palaces;
and that some of it, also, was hewn for
artists, who, with chisels, cut it into the
shapes of the things around them which
they thought loveliest. Some of these things
which the artists made were exchanged for
great fortunes, the quarrymen told him.
And this little was all that he knew of art
The most beautiful shapes about him, in
those bleak comfortless mountains, were
those of the vines and flowers, poor and
mean as they were. So he began trying to
| -